Antique Restoration

your third date starts the same as the other two: she takes you into her room. everything on the dresser is the same: watch repair tools, a scalpel for small incisions, a cleaver for bigger ones. she hands you water and two pills and you take them without question

before you know it, you’re lying on the bed, unable to move, your face locked in a smile of anticipation. she gently grabs your right hand, opens the hatch on your pinky finger, and starts poking around. the rest of your body is unfeeling but your finger tickles as she digs in

this part of you is her design: she knows it more intimately than you could ever know any part of yourself. as she fiddles with it and does whatever maintenance tasks she needs to (you don’t know what and don’t care to) she closes the hatch and moves on to your ring finger

you can feel her touch your clockwork, in minute detailed ways that the old parts of your body never allowed you to. its a good thing you’re sedated, because the sensations of her inspecting this part of you would be too much for you to feel while lying still

what she does to you feels like less like replacement and more like an antique restoration, something that finally clears away the rust and gunk within your body and allows you to feel the ways you know you were meant to all along

eventually she makes you close your hand into a fist except for your middle finger, and all of a sudden that finger isn’t there anymore, as she rewires the severed nerves into her newest creation and attaches it in its place

when the sedative wears off she’s right there beside you, gently holding the hand that bears her handiwork. she puts it up to her chest and you feel her heartbeat in your new finger and the connection you feel with each other becomes almost too intense for you to bear

for you, there is no mortifying ordeal of being known. despite the slow pace, you want nothing else. the only mortifying ordeal is the waiting you endure to become known completely